A/N: So I only thought this was a one-shot. As soon as I finished the story with Bootstrap and Elizabeth, I knew I had to write the other conversation that would inevitably follow. They both work fine on their own, but I've paired them together because I think it works even better. There is a small (emphasis: small) chance that I will continue writing one-shots based on the premise of Bootstrap visiting William and Elizabeth over the years, but I make no promises. (The last time I committed to a long-term project, Adequate happened.) If I do write them, though, this is where they'll be posted. Ultimately, it'll come down to whether inspiration strikes and whether I feel there's sufficient demand to justify the time commitment, but keep a weather eye on the horizon. :)

"I have a son," Will repeated, not quite able to believe that his ears had relayed his father's words correctly the first time.

"Aye." Bootstrap seemed uneasy, opening his mouth several times before he actually spoke again. "Will, I realize this may be a bit difficult for you to accept…"

Will let out a short, incredulous laugh. One thing he had learned over the past year was that his father had a remarkable gift for understatement. To say that learning he had a son was "a bit difficult" was akin to saying that the sea was a bit wet, or that Jack Sparrow was a bit prone to eccentricity.

Running a hand through his hair, he abruptly stood up and began pacing around the cabin. It wasn't especially large and reminded him of a cage more days than not, but it was gradually beginning to feel like home. He'd brought in lanterns and a real bed – small touches that made it seem marginally more human and inviting. He'd even gotten his hands on a writing desk and some quills and parchment, feeling so pleased with himself when he'd thought of a way to exchange messages with his wife.

They had a son. It had always been within the realm of possibility, his more rational side reminded him. Of course they'd only had the one day together as husband and wife, but that's all it took, really. One day, and now they had a son.

"What does he look like?" he asked.

Bootstrap got to his feet and joined Will by the desk, leaning against its edge. "He favors his mother, I think, though it's hard to say at this age. Doesn't look much like I recall you looking, anyway, though he has your eyes." He reached briefly inside his coat and pulled something out. "Elizabeth sent you a token, by the way."

Will accepted the handkerchief from his father and carefully unfolded it. He fancied that it still smelled faintly of her. Inside its folds were a lock of long, golden brown hair and a small cluster of short hair of a similar shade, each carefully bound with a scrap of ribbon. Somehow the physical evidence made it much more concrete in his mind, which had likely been Elizabeth's intent.

He had a son. A real, living, breathing son. A son who had been alive for months now without his father ever being aware of his existence. A son who would continue to grow for the next nine years before he would ever lay eyes on said father. He would take his first steps, speak his first words, and lose a good number of teeth long before Will would be able to next set foot on land. He would go on adventures, get into fights, and possibly even have his first love. Will hadn't been much older when he'd met the boy's mother, after all.

He brought his hand down sharply on the desk, startling both Bootstrap and himself. "I should be there with them."

"Will…"

"I know it isn't possible, but I should be," Will continued, passion creeping into his voice as the initial numbness began to recede. "It isn't right. No boy should have to grow up without a father."

The word hung in the air for a moment before Bootstrap spoke up.

"Like you did?"

There was something about his father's tone, gentle and yet matter-of-fact, that made Will pause. He passed a weary hand over his forehead before responding. "Yes."

Bootstrap didn't seem offended. They'd both already said everything that needed to be said about the matter. "You're right, of course," he said slowly, seeming to pick his words carefully. "It isn't fair that Elizabeth should have to bear this burden, nor that William should go nearly a decade without meeting his father. But don't you dare consider that you might be anything like me. I chose my path; you had this forced upon you."

"It could have been prevented, though," Will argued.

"How's that?"

"If I'd engaged Jones sooner, perhaps I would have gained the upper hand. Or if I hadn't been foolish enough to attempt running him through. Or if I'd simply fought better-"

"If I hadn't attacked and distracted you, perhaps you would have engaged Jones sooner. Or if I'd fought you for longer, perhaps you never would've gotten within Jones's reach at all. Perhaps if I'd done my duty as a husband and father in the first place, your mother would still be alive and we'd all be happily settled somewhere on the English coast, and you'd have a pretty little wife and several children, and none of us would have ever heard of cursed Aztec gold or Davy Jones or Calypso save in passing legend."

Will, finding that he had no response, merely furrowed his brow and sat down on the edge of the desk.

Bootstrap sighed heavily. "You can't do this to yourself, Will – the blame, the what-ifs. I don't count myself among the especially wise, but I know regret, and I can tell you that you're only wasting your time. No matter who or what got you here, this is where you are now. Make the best of it that you can, or you'll only have more regrets to follow."

Will gave his father a small smile. "Are you certain you haven't gained some wisdom in your old age?"

"Just plenty of lessons learned the hard way." Bootstrap reached into his coat pocket again and produced a bulkier parcel than before: a bottle of brandy and two small glasses wrapped in rags. "I've had a bit of coin on me since Barbossa sent me to the depths," he explained as he set the glasses on the desk and poured a bit into each. "Didn't seem right not to spend it when I finally had a chance, so I thought we might toast the newest addition to the family."

Picking up one of the glasses, Will clinked it against the one in Bootstrap's hand. "Health and life to you, William Turner," he said softly. "May you have an easier time of it than your namesakes."

As they each drank, Will glanced over at his father. They'd been apart for nearly twenty years, and while they still had their rough patches, the past year had gone far in repairing their relationship. Perhaps nine years apart from his own son wouldn't be as insurmountable as it seemed. He'd write often to both of them, trusting Elizabeth to share his letters when the time was right. William would know his father, even if it was to be years before they met face-to-face.

Draining the last of his brandy, he briefly rested a hand on his father's shoulder. "Thank you."

Bootstrap looked up in surprise. "For what?"

"For reminding me that it's never too late to start acting like a father."